Hitting the trail with Mr. Mike

So, there I was rolling down the Michael R. Bloomberg Highway with none other than the namesake in the shotgun seat of my pickup truck.

I’d put a bunch of long-stemmed flowers in the gun rack to make the former New York City mayor and modern-day news mogul feel more at home.

Just for laughs, we grabbed a couple of Big Gulps for the drive from Colorado Springs to Pueblo, where his jet was parked. We didn’t know at the time that it had been tagged, apparently by the Native Rural Americans, or some other group with those initials.

He’d called in a panic after a political fundraiser at the Broadmoor went horribly, horribly wrong. Protesters from both candidates’ camps were picketing, saying their votes aren’t for sale.

Yeah, right.

Mayor-ish Bloomberg called me to spirit him away, because this is my fantasy.

“So, Mike . . . Can I call you Mike?”

“Mr. Bloomberg would be fine.”

“Sure, and you can call me Mr. Special.”

“You know, I’m really impressed. You talk in complete sentences most of the time and seem to have kept your dental work up to date.”

“Some of us thrive out here in rural America, Mr. Bloomberg.”

“I understand that. No harm meant when I denigrated you people in the Rolling Stone article. As a member of the Elite, I understand all about stereotypes and the danger of classifying people according to outdated information and opinions.”

“Well, it must be hard to be among the Top Ten Richest Americans, huh?”

“There you go. It’s things like that which irk me. For your information, I am only No. 11 on the American billionaire list, and only No. 16 on the global list. I’m a pygmy compared to the Koch brothers. Yet, Mr. Special, people are always making jokes about all my money and the way I attempt to use it to influence people.”

“Well, Mr. Bloomberg, I cannot question your generosity. The traffic on I-25 has been flowing much more smoothly and safely since you added three more lanes in both directions and installed the rubberized side rails. Gosh, it only took a couple of weeks to complete. And, you convinced us to name the road for you, ended that awful Kennedy-Reagan dichotomy.”

“It was the least I could do after those unfortunate remarks in Rolling Stone. Of course you people have roads out here in rural America, it’s just that they’re not that great.”

“Well, the people of Pueblo West might disagree. They like their roads so much that they voted down a tax to improve them. And apparently Pueblo must be in pretty good shape, since we rarely bother to repair our streets.”

“Agreed, you people are satisfied with your roads and probably deserve every mile of them. And I must say that there certainly is no shortage of road construction projects in your area, Mr. Special.”

“Exactly, Mr. Bloomberg. Next to building a water pipeline to fuel growth in Colorado Springs, it’s our major industry.”

“Speaking of water, is that the lake I paid for?”

“Oh, you mean the Michael R. Bloomberg Fountain Creek Dam and Reservoir Project? Yes. And, again I have to marvel at how quickly you accomplished that particular task. We’ve dreamt of building it for 50 years, and it took you just six weeks.”

“Well, it was nothing, Mr. Special. I believe that once I start investing in an area, it’s necessary for me to protect that investment. As you will recall — no pun intended — I infused ample resources into selected area media outlets last year.”

“And don’t think we’re not grateful. It’s just that some people have this stereotype of you as a rich meddling liberal who hates our Second Amendment rights.”

“As you can see, Mr. Special, I truly do care about your little backwoods communities, and I want to do everything I can to make amends.”